


A Cold Comfort

by whatchamajig



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatchamajig/pseuds/whatchamajig
Summary: It's rather hard to fight in a war when your soul exists outside your body and the enemy might not have a soul at all.
Six years ago Jesse McCree and his daemon Truccel left Blackwatch after witnessing the infighting and corruption growing within it and Overwatch. They've spent the years traveling the world, dodging bounty hunters and trying to make the world a better place. With the Second Omnic Crisis building and Talon and various other organizations rising through the ashes they might have to come back from retirement sooner than expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> find me at whatchamajig.tumblr.com

High above the Deadlock Gorge an eagle soars, letting out a screech as it catches sight of a hare and takes the dive. Its talons find their mark and the hare manages a brief, terrifying screech before its cut short as the eagle tightens it’s grip. The eagle begins tearing at the fur of the rabbit, throwing it away until the surrounding area looks like a small cotton field. Halfway through a single gunshot echoes through the gorge and the eagle falls besides its meal, head blown clean off.

“Could have caught it,” A male voice says as it draws near the corpses. A tall coyote bends its head to sniff at them, rolling the hare on top of the eagle and gathering them in its mouth. It trots back across the field to stand beside a man, who takes the eagle from it so that it can work its jaws more easily around the hare. He jingles with each step he takes as well polished spurs reflect off the noon sun.

“Yeah, yeah,” The man says. The eagle’s legs have been tied together with twine and thrown over his shoulder, hanging without a care, “Or it would have gotten the beat on you and we both would have been stuck up in the shack.”

“Fuck you, Jesse,” The coyote drops the hare momentarily to snark at the man, Jesse, before grabbing it again and trotting after him. 

They walk for a while, Jesse humming a bawdy old country song and the coyote smacking its tail against his leg. Eventually they make it to a small shack just outside the small town in the gorge, nestled high up in the crags. They were high enough that the paths leading up to it became narrow and the only those who knew the way or were steady on their feet could make it. Jesse uses his weight to push the door in, the coyote using his front paws for help when the door protests, aged and rusted. 

Inside is simple; a twin against the back wall that’s felt its fair share of bullets and blades, a sink that rattles whenever a train passes through, an old wood fire stove/oven, a bathroom that has no definitive start and end to the shower, and the rest of the room. It wasn’t much, but it had been more than Jesse had had for the past couple of years and he’d dealt with having less in the past. 

Dropping down in front of the stove the coyote sets the work on the hare, pulling a haunch free while Jesse fiddles with the lighting the damned thing. Once the fire starts he takes a seat next to him and begins to pluck the eagle.  
“You ever wonder what it’d be like if I wasn’t your daemon?” The coyote asks, throwing his head back and working his jaw as he tries to remove the bits of fur that had gotten stuck in his teeth.

“Reckon I’d be better off, seeing as how you always get us into trouble.”

“Me?!” Long ears lie back against the coyote’s skull, shock and indignation shown as best they can on lupine features.

“Relax, Truce, you know I wouldn’t get rid of you for the world. ‘Sides, ain’t no me if there ain’t you.” Jesse chuckles, reaching out to shove at Truce’s rump, pulling back at just the right time to avoid the daemon’s teeth.

“Don’t you forget it, Jesse McCree.” Jesse stands and tosses the now plucked eagle on the stove, fishing out a couple of frying pans, seasoning, and a small kitchen knife. As quick as he can he spices the bird and cuts it into thin slices before tossing them into the pan. It’d be easier to cook up the entire thing now than make a trip back into town for ice and risk getting caught by the authorities or those members of Deadlock who had managed to avoid the Overwatch shakedown. If someone with a keen nosed daemon happened to smell a cooking bird, well, who’s to say that someone wasn’t cooking down below and a quick breeze had brought it upwards. 

From across the room comes a sharp, quick trill. Both Jesse and Truce freeze in their place, listening to the tone sound again and again. It ends as quickly as it started and suddenly the room is overtaken by a soft, white hue. The Overwatch symbol stands out in the darkness of the room, as much of a bright and shinning beacon of hope now as it had been all those years ago.

“ _ **This is a message for Blackwatch Agent 3945_45 and 3945_45_1, Jesse McCree and Truccel,” Athena’s voice fills the room, “You are here by being recalled to Watchpoint: Gibraltar at the behest of Overwatch Agent Winston. Please return at your earliest convenience.**_ ” The AI falls into silence and if Jesse were a newer agent or was being addressed by a human he’d think she was done, ” _ **We know that you are alive, Agent McCree. Overwatch may no longer exist but we need you, now more than ever. We can’t do this without you.**_ ”

The transmission ends there and the room is once more plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the setting sun outside. Neither Jesse nor Truccel move, both purposefully ignoring looking at the bed and the communicator that rests on it.

“That last part wasn’t Athena.” Truccel states.

“Nope.”

“We should respond this time.”

“Should, yeah.”

Jesse’s spurs jingle as he walks across the room. Stopping at the foot of the bed, he reaches down and slides the communicator under the pillow.

\-----------------------

Luck had only ever taken Jesse so far. It took him from the orphanage to Deadlock until it gave him to Overwatch; from there it graced him with Blackwatch, Reyes, and the rest of the agents before… Before whatever had happened had happened. It gave generously and took away viciously, never giving him more than he needed, always left just when he had dug his heels in and made a place for himself. So he’s not all that surprised when he wakes up one morning to find his prosthetic arm unresponsive and the nerve endings at his elbow protesting at the dead weight.

“Should have stopped and had it looked at before we left Santa Fe.” Truce chides, hopping up on the countertop Jesse was resting against. The town of Deadlock Gorge might still have a few residents but most kept themselves in the lower parts, where the river cut through the town and they were off the connecting highway. It left the upper parts of the town rather barren as tourists weren’t all that willing to drive through such a rough looking neighborhood to get to the better part. Best to go down an exit or two to the nicer towns. An empty part of town is nice for them, however, and they’ve been using the abandoned diner as a storehouse for the few months that they’ve been here. 

“Should have stopped there, should have gone to the base in Nevada, should have stayed altogether. Anything else we should have done?” Jesse’s just a little bit irritable, not that anyone should blame him. He’s got his arm up on the countertop and is going at it with a screwdriver. It comes off with a grunt and a tug and Jesse throws the screwdriver back into the tool bag. Having the dead weight off his arm is a relief, one that he welcomes by rolling his shoulders and rubbing the stump at his elbow. Having the prosthetic off brings back memories of hospitals and the monitor that had been hooked up to his body. He remembers Gabriel sitting by his beside, Redina sitting on his shoulder or the frame of the bed or hopping forward just enough to brush her wings against Truce.

“Should have kissed Mary-Ann before we moved.” Truce brings him out of the memory and he glares at the daemon, giving him a push that sends him laughing onto the other side of the counter. After he’s done laughing he jumps back up and sashays his way over to sit beside Jesse’s shoulder. “But really, we should go back to Santa Fe and see if Anselma will fix your arm, give us the _especial de dos días._ ”

“Can’t do that to her. We owe her money from last time and she’s got kids to feed. ‘Sides we were tagged in Santa Fe by Overwatch. Talon. Bounty hunters, and more. We’d be putting them in danger.”

Truce drops back down behind the bar and Jesse can hear him rummaging through boxes back there. Something drops, the daemon yelps, and Jesse knows he’s fine by the way he insults him when the human inquires about his wellbeing. He trots back around with a vest in his mouth, one designed specifically for him from back in the Blackwatch days. It fits snuggly around his torso but is loose enough that he can still reach full speed in the necessary situations; there’s pouches that Truce can open without any help, usually stuffed full of food or small trackers he can set off if he gets lost. When they had first gotten the vest they had suggested small pills full of fake blood that could be used to intimidate if he got backed into a bad situation. Reyes had stared at them for long, long moment before he had smacked Jesse upside the head, banning the idea entirely, and “Get the hell out of my office, _cabróns._ ”

“Trying to paint a target on our backs with that gimmick? Put it back, Truce.”

“Nah,” Truce drops the vest and rearranges it so that he can put it on himself, shaking to adjust it properly. It still looks good on him, Jesse notes. “Break your arm down and put it in the pouches. If we can’t go to Anselma we’ll go up to Oregon and see if J-KOB can’t give us what we need, we’ve got a favor. We’ll catch a train.”

“Last time we got on a train we almost got captured, possibly shot.” Despite his protest Jesse goes about disassembling the arm until it’s small enough to fit inside the pouches that run along the sides of Truce’s vest. There’s a Blackwatch symbol on the front of the vest that rests against the daemon’s chest. It’s faded with time and dust but if someone were to know where to look and what they were looking for it’d be an easy find. Jesse points at it.

“Keep your head down when we get into town. I’m sure people will know what it means if they ever payed attention to the news.”

“Give me your serape, I’ll cover it up; and shave your beard. They might know Jesse McCree has a coyote daemon but they also know you walk around dressed like you’re straight out of one of those damn Eastwood movies.” 

“Hey, fuck you, those movies are classics!”

“Yeah, whatever, just get everything and let’s move before someone decides to finally run as out.” Truce is out the door and on the road before he’s finished talking. Jesse follows him after gathering any sign about who might have been in the diner. 

They make their way back up to the shack and Jesse goes about shutting off the stove and stopping the pipes, making sure to shave before he does the latter. Truce drags out their duffel bag and drops Jesse’s clothing in it, folding as best as one can when they lack thumbs and the motion range of a human. He leaves out a nice plaid button up and a pair of jeans that fit nicely over Jesse’s boots. When Jesse places his hat on his head he eyes Truce up and down as the daemon does the same; like this they look just like a man and his daemon fresh from a divorce or years of school and finally looking to make their way in the world.

As Jesse double checks the locks on the windows Truce slips the Overwatch communicator into the duffel bag.

\-----------------------  
Portland, Oregon was one of the cities that suffered the worst during the First Omnic Crisis. For as long as anyone could remember, Portland had been one of the most progressive cities in the United States, with omnics of all types flocking to the city in hopes of finding themselves there like so many humans had done. With no large military base nearby almost a half of the city had been reduced to rubble before anyone had been able to send troops to help. Despite this, or maybe because of it, the omnic population was on the rise again in the city. Construction companies were willing to hire out omnics to help rebuild the city and small businesses were on the rise once again, most staffed with omnic employees so each could stay open later than if there had been only humans. 

Even with the majority of the population welcoming the omnics once more there were more than a handful of people who thought it was a mistake to allow them back into the city. Gangs and private militaries had cropped up in the city as time went on, targeting omnic owned businesses and any humans who dared to still associate with them. It had gotten so bad that the mayor of the city had ordered a curfew for the Portlandian omnics that still remained in place to this day. 

Jesse couldn’t blame them, to be honest. Not as he watched the news coverage of the Second Crisis on his holovid. The trainline from Arizona to Oregon ran underground, a precaution against would be train jackers. It would take a day and a half even at the speed they were traveling at. Jesse passed the time by surfing the web, checking news sites, domestic and international, for any information about the Crisis and the reemergence of Overwatch. The only information he had been able to find on the later was the brawl between two Talon agents and two Overwatch agents at the Doomfist exhibit in Numbani. There was no clear image of the Talon agents but Winston’s massive size and the blue contrails that herald Tracer were unmistakable. A small smile crosses Jesse’s lips as he watches the video again and again. 

Lena had always been among Jesse’s favorite agents to spend time with. She was so cheery, so happy all the time and it was such a contrast to the agents of Blackwatch with their grim humor or the seriousness that Strike Commander Morrison tried to put into his own agents. Nothing ever brought her down; Lena was there rain or shine and Jesse can’t count how many times she had shown up at his room, cups of hot chocolate in hand, when a mission had gone wrong. Her daemon, a tiny chipmunk name Roo had spent many a day piggybacking on Truce as they explored whatever base they were on.

Against his leg Truce yawns and shakes away sleep, turning his attention to the holovid. His tail thumps against their seat as he watches Lena zoom around the museum.

The video ends and Jesse closes out of the tab, bringing up a Russian news site that explained the details of the Crisis happening over there. Volskaya Industries was in the process of building mechs to combat the bigger omnics, one that were piloted by humans and couldn’t be taken over if the omnics went that route. An article about the mechs makes a comment about how they had taken the idea from South Korea and their MEKAs, which had proved helpful each time the omnic in the sea had risen up. The article ends with a comment section that’s filled with a variety of languages, all of them debating the rights of the omnics versus the rights of humans. Jesse closes out of that too, bringing up a compilation of cats falling off things for Truce to watch.

“ _We should be doing routine._ ” The daemon says in between laughs. He stretches and rolls over onto his back and begins to maneuver himself closer to Jesse through wiggling. He’s never that affectionate unless they’re both coming down from an adrenaline rush from a mission; some people are always touching their daemons, sometimes for comfort, sometimes for confidence, but Jesse and Truce had never been like that. They knew who they were and what they needed from each other. Only once had Truce climbed in his lap in fear, back in the beginnings of Blackwatch when Reyes had taken them along on a mission to save an Overwatch agent. The agent had spent the entire flight back to the base huddled in a corner with their daemon clawing at them like they were trying to get into their chest. Jesse hadn’t been able to see the report but had caught words like ‘severing’ and ‘touching’. 

But right now they’re not Jesse and Truccel. They’re Joan and Oriol, a young man and his daemon come up from Mexico to visit family in the U.S.. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever actually been, and Jesse is still adjusting to Truccel climbing into his lap to nap. 

“ _We’re on a train, too many people would see._ ”

“ _So when we get to J-KOB’s?_ ”

“ _If we’re allow, yeah._ ” 

An old woman with a beaver daemon waddles down the aisle, returning Jesse’s smile and sitting down across from him. She pulls out a ball of yarn and a knitting needles, handing the ball to the beaver to hold on to. Jesse watches her and frowns when he feels a hole opening up in his chest.

“ _We weren’t meant for the civilian life._ ” Truce mutters into his leg as he lapses into sleep. Jesse agrees and tucks the holovid into his bag before pulling his hat over his face and following Truce to sleep. 

They awaken when the train comes to a stop and soft, welcoming tone informs them that they’ve made it to Portland. Grabbing his duffle bag, Jesse looks over at the seat across from him and finds the old woman from before gone, gone long enough that her indent in the seat had reformed back into its original form.

“ _In California._ ” Truce yawns as he pads over to the doors, waiting for the chime that signals their opening and darts out without hesitation. Following through Jesse rubs the sleep out of his eyes, stepping onto the platform and following the tug at his bond with Truce to go in the right direction. Kids stare openly at him as he passes, trying to find his daemon; they’re used to omnics walking around without them but because of that even people with the smallest of daemons try to have them visible at all times. The Shambali claimed that the souls of omnic rested within themselves rather than taking form to walk alongside them. It had caused quite a commotion when omnics first came around and didn’t know how to interact with daemons, openly trying to pet them the way one would their animal counterparts. Between that and the reports that omnics had aimed for daemons during the Crisis it wasn’t uncommon to see people tug their daemons away from the machines or place themselves between the two.

Truce remained just ahead of Jesse as they walk, ducking around corners lightning fast and leaving only a glimpse of his tail. He betrays Jesse’s attempt at seeming at ease; his ears are flattened and his hackles rise ever so slightly every time a car zooms by. He’s fallen into Blackwatch mode, just like Jesse, and it’s turning him into a nervous wreck. They stop at an intersection where he snaps at a woman’s sun bear daemon when he draws too close. The woman glares at Jesse and he returns it before dodging traffic as he crosses the street.

The deeper parts of the city haven’t been touched by the rebuilding just yet, not enough funding and people choosing to remain close to the edge in case they have to run again. This leaves it crawling with omnics and those of younger generations who only know what history taught them. Their daemons are smaller here, settling as small dogs or cats or any other type of animal that wouldn’t have an issue fitting into small places. 

Daemons, the instructors at Overwatch had taught him, were influenced by their surroundings just as much as humans were. People born and raised in cities were more likely to have daemons that settled into small, passive animals while those in the country had bears or working animals, types that were meant to go on for days and could put up a fight. Anyone who had their younger years defined by the Omnic Crisis and the poverty that followed it tended to have daemons more prone to violence: hippos and wolverines to name a few. Those born within the past fifteen years had daemons that settled in forms that were less aggressive, but no less dangerous if need be.

Study the daemon and you will have the man, Reyes had taught him. Stereotypes only gets a person so far when so many daemons have learned to pull a poker face with their body. 

Their walk leads them to a strip lit up by neon and littered with kiosks that sell oddities. An omnic shouts at them in garbled English as they past, trying to shove what looked to be an old disk into Jesse’s hands. It screamed angrily when he brushes right on by. A rock whizzes by his ear and when he turns the omnic runs for the cover of his kiosk, poking its head around when it’s sure that Jesse is gone. Eventually they stop in front of a small brick building with a green neon sign over the doorway that reads ‘Fix-It Up’. 

Inside is a wide open lobby that narrows into a single hallway with doors on either side. There’s a couch and coffee table in the middle of the room and a reception desk with a girl with bright pink hair sitting behind it. She pops her bubblegum at him and a feline head rises just enough to see Jesse and Truce before plopping back down.

“Do you have an appointment? If so, with who? If not, please sign this paperwork so we can give you the best match for your needs.” Her left eye lights up and she types away at something, spinning her chair around to grab paperwork as it prints out and then turning back around to offer it to him. “Pen’s on the table.”

“ _I’m here to see J-KOB._ ” Jesse responds in Russian.

The girl pinches her lips together, eyeing him up and down, before she stands and makes her way to the back. Her daemon, a sleek caracal, curses and follows after her. She returns a moment later and ushers him into the back with a nod of her head.

“ _Thanks,_ ” Jesse tips his hat.

The door they stop in front of is one of the ones in the back. Jesse knocks twice before opening the door. A startled gasp comes from inside and the omnic it came from stops his work. The omnic looks nothing like the ones that wander the streets or in habit Numbani. He’s made up of parts from other omnics, a BASTION repair arm instead of a right arm, the plating on his neck bronze coated rather than the silver of the rest of his body. A t-shirt had been pulled over his chest, one size too small, and there’s something rude in Russian on the front of it. His lower half is a column of metal that ends in two wheels that have treads made for going over cityscapes.

“ _Good evening, cowboy! I almost didn’t recognize you without the beard._ ” Pushing away from the desk he’s resting against, the omnic makes his way over to stand in front of Jesse. 

“ _Howdy, J-KOB. I was wondering if you'd be willing to fix my arm._ ” Truce makes himself known to Jakob then, pulling off the serape so that the omnic can see the bits of the arm sticking out of the packs. J-KOB reaches down and pulls out part of the hand, giggling softly when the fingers flop about lifelessly. Opening his mouth to say something Truce is silenced with a glare and soft nudge from Jesse.

“ _I can do this, sure, sure, sure!_ ” J-KOB’s head spins as he gathers up the pieces of the arm and throws them on a workbench, turning on overhead lights and a small generator. “ _It'll cost you a couple grand and take a few days but I can do it!_ ”

_“I don't have the money for it... was hoping you could do me a solid._ ”

J-KOB’s frame freezes and his head does a full one-eighty to look at him.

“ _Can’t hear you, cowboy. No pay, no play!_ ” 

“ _You’re a liar._ ” Truce snaps as he raises his hackles. J-KOB lets out a shrill sound and backs up towards the bench.

“ _Enough! Stop it, dammit!_ ” Jesse steps in between the two, holding his hand up. “ _J-KOB, I’m going to use my favor._ ” His words are enough to stop both Truce and J-KOB, with the latter’s head spinning in patternless repetition.

“ _Only Kasparov or his men may approve the favors. You know that._ ”

“ _Please, J-KOB. I’ll tell Kasparov or Seven or whoever I see first. You know my word is good._ ”

J-KOB stares at him for a long moment, one of the his eyes flicking in and out, before he nods and turns back to the bench.

“ _Because I like you, cowboy. It will be done in two hours._ ”

Jesse voices his thanks, bowing low when normally he’d fold his hands together. Stepping out of the room he pauses as he has to physically scoop up Truce when the daemon refuses to move. He nods at the reception as he passes, not minding when she responds with a dull stare. As he closes the front door he sets Truce down and takes a deep breath as he stands up straight. 

“Went better than I expected, I’d say.”

“You say a lot of things,” Truce replies, plopping down on his haunches, “Now what?”

“Reckon we get a bite to eat and pass the time, then see if we can’t catch a plane to Greece.”

“Why Greece? You hate Greece.” 

“I don’t hate, I’d just prefer not to be there unless I gotta.”

They chatter as they walk, stopping briefly to get food: burger, fries, and half a chicken. Eventually they make it to the exact center of the city. The buildings here a more worn, more bullet ridden than anywhere else, but the laughter of children fills the air and somewhere far away someone is listening to music. The streets end at a park that was most likely someone’s backyard before the Crisis; it has a few trees and a flower bed that’s filled with an array of colors, with blues and yellows being the most significant.

In the middle of the park is a tall statue of Strike Commander Jack Morrison holding hands with a child. It was taken straight from the iconic image that news reports used all the time when talking about Morrison, the one of him walking out of dust and rubble with those he managed to save. The smile on his face is one that burns in Jesse’s memory and he sighs heavily. Adara stands proudly beside him, her gaze turned to observe the rest of the park.

“That should be Gabriel up there,” Truce says quietly. Jesse doubts anyone here knows who Gabriel is or even remembers him but it helps to be cautious.

“No. No, Gabriel should be up there beside Morrison. You know that.” Only the wind answers him and Jesse sighs again. There’s a bench at the base of the statue and he sits down on it, making sure to leave enough room for Truce to jump up beside him. He plops the chicken down and takes his own food, leaning back as he munches to stare at Morrison’s arm.

“I think that car’s lost,” Truce draws his attention and Jesse looks towards the outside of the park. A sleek black car is doing lazy laps around the park, slowing down when they pass into view of Jesse and Truce. The windows are tinted too dark to be legal, there’s no way for Jesse to tell if they’re actually lost or if he should start heading back early. “Too nice of a car to be here.”

“Subtly is a lost art these days. Why doesn’t anyone know how to do this right?” Throwing his head back Jesse groans half-heartedly and stands from the bench, brushing the crumbs off his lap. Motioning for truce to follow, Jesse sets off down the street whistling the theme of an Eastwood movie.

“Careful, don’t have your arm yet.”

“S’why we’re going back. Maybe J-KOB got it done early.”

“Doubt it. His room wasn’t bugged this time, by the way; we don’t have to worry about anyone hearing us.”

As they stroll down the sidewalk Truce taps the location of the car with his tail against Jesse’s legs. Closer. Around the corner. Stopped at a light. Here again. Jesse pays them no mind as he walks. If they have any idea who he is then they know he knows they’re there. No need to start a confrontation so early. When they round the corner near the shop there is another car, the same sleek black, sitting outside a building close by. The men and women standing outside of it are all dressed in nice suits and fancy dresses, their daemons being just as elegant. They’re talking among themselves, gesturing to the building. Jesse isn’t able to tell which one of them she belongs to but a golden lioness is relaxing on the hood of the car. She doesn’t look away when Jesse catches her eye.

“Could be tourists,” Jesse says.

“Could be gentrification,” Truce counters.

“Could be looking to buy something,”

“Or someone,” They finish at the same time. One of the women in the group turns to look at him as he stops outside the shop. She returns Jesse’s wave with a shy smile, crossing her arms over her chest.

They don’t say anything to the receptionist as they enter, walking past her despite her protests and her daemons rising curses. A few people poke their heads out of their rooms but quickly duck back in when they realize it’s just another unruly customer. Stopping outside J-KOB’s room Jesse knocks twice before opening.

“ _Cowboy! I told you two hours._ ” J-KOB calls cheerfully as his spins his head around to stare at Jesse. He returns the wave and then turns back around. “ _Doesn’t matter, I’m almost done._ ”

“You mind hurrying it up a bit? Just found out I don’t have as much time as I thought.” J-KOB looks back at him at that, eyes flickering rapidly. Jesse meets his stare and gestures to his arm while Truce yanks the duffle bag out from under a chair.

“ _Why the rush? You’re already getting it quicker than normal._ ” the omnic gestures to the chair. “ _Sit down, cowboy. Let that burger settle._ ”

Jesse and Truce share a long look before Jesse takes the advice and settles down, draping his arm around the back of the chair. Truce makes himself busy by pulling clothing out of the dufflebag and repositioning it to make himself a small nest. He’s chewing at something that Jesse can’t see but he assumes it’s most likely a farce or the shaving kit that rarely gets used. J-KOB tinkers with his back turned, so he misses the way Jesse takes in the room, moving his fingers to signal to Truce. 

“How’s business, J-KOB? Kasparov’s boys still giving you shit for being an omnic?”

“ _You know how they are,_ ” The omnic sighs. “ _The master is afraid, and so too are the dogs._ ”

“Ever think about leaving?” Jesse prods, crossing his legs. He rubs his chin in false thought and frowns when he remembers that he doesn’t have his beard. Somewhere in the bag Truce cackles loudly. Suddenly the coyote is in the air, body bent, and he brings his front paws down with as much force as he can muster. He’ll have to check the bag for mice before they get on the plane; it wouldn’t be the first time Truce had hidden live prey food in their things to keep himself entertained. 

“ _If I could, yes, but they will not let their own go so easily._ ” J-KOB sighs, “ _Even a ‘robot’ such as I._ ”

“There’d be people to help you, you know.” Jesse stands, stretching his back, grimacing when he hears the multitude of clicks. His body has become adamant lately in reminding him of his age; he’s no longer the spry young agent he was when he started this life and he hasn’t a proper routine in a long time. Idly he thinks of Reinhardt and Cyrilla and their refusal to go quietly into retirement. When he was younger he had disagreed with them, not understanding why they wouldn’t want to be payed to sit around all day. Now that he’s older he understands the need, the want, to feel active and required.

“ _There are people who are interested, yes._ ” J-KOB wasn’t the best in the business, often outshined by humans and omnics who were more designed for the craft of turning prosthetics and body improvements into art like tattoos or piercings, but he what he lacked in ability he made up for in design and imagination. Design and imagination that Kasparov had taken and turned to an arms pace.

J-KOB moves to the far end of the table and Jesse can see his arm, finished in full and with a few attachments he didn’t have before. Possibly a tracker, possibly a bomb. Jesse reaches for his gun, curling his fingers around the grip. It’s not Peacekeeper, she’s nested in the dufflebag, too recognizable by the right people to be out in the open, but it’ll do in the meantime.

“Don’t gotta do this, you know. Just give me my arm, and I’ll be on my way.”

J-KOB doesn’t say anything, but the twitch is all Jesse needs before he’s rolling behind the chair.

The omnic had turned his entire body quickly, human arm changing into a small semi-automatic that would probably leave decent sized holes in the wall. A tan flash fills Jesse’s view and he sees Truce darting across the room, using the chair and J-KOB’s shoulder as springboards to get behind the omnic and grab his arm. J-KOB catches the movement too, spinning back around and firing wildly and Jesse takes his chance.

He rolls from around the chair, gun drawn, and takes a shot. It hits, burying itself in J-KOB’s shoulder, and the omnic groans. He turns once more to Jesse and fires. Jesse moves, but not quick enough; a bullet grazes his upper calf, causing the human to drop to his knees, and somewhere in the room Truce yelps in anger. Firing again J-KOB begins rolling towards Jesse without letting up and he’s shouting something in Russian that Jesse can’t make out over the gunfire.

Huffing angrily Jesse pulls himself behind the chair again, out of sight of J-KOB. He’s only used one shot and if he had his other arm and any of his flash grenades or more ammo this would be over before it escalated any farther. He has neither, however, and his time is running out.

“I am sorry, cowboy,” J-KOB’s voice sounds sincere and full of hurt as he wheels closer, “But I must do what is best.”

Jesse’s sorry too. The omnic had been a good acquaintance and an in to places they need to go. Oh, well. J-KOB rolls into Jesse’s line of sight and he strikes. Dropping his weight onto his right leg Jesse follows with and arcs his left leg out to hit J-KOB in the middle of his back, using his right arm for an extra limb on the floor. The omnic falls with relative ease, his own weight combined with the force of Jesse’s kick making him unable to stop his momentum when the fall starts. He screams angrily when he hits the ground, rotating his torso to face the ceiling and firing. He only stops when the barrel of the gun lets out a solid chink and he has to reload. The wheels at the end of him start to turn and Jesse realizes that they’re going to push him up if he doesn’t move quickly.

Drawing himself to his full height Jesse steps forward so that he stands directly at the base of J-KOB, aims the barrel of his gun, and pulls the trigger. There is no jerky movement from the omnic when he dies and the only sound to be heard is the sound of Jesse’s bullet tearing through the metal. When you shoot an omnic it’s no different than shooting office supplies. 

Outside there are voices screaming in Russian and English flying past the door towards the back. Jesse is fairly certain there’s more back there than an exit and employee parking. He had seen this place crawling with too many of Kasparvo’s goons hanging around the place to be willing to let it slide completely, but that’s not his worry right now.

Rushing over to the table Jesse grabs his arm from Truce, gathering up J-KOB’s tools and going about putting his arm back on. Truce plays his front paws on his shoulder, ears back and hackles raised, as he watches the door.

“There’s people outside. English speakers. A few heavy hitters by the sound of footfall.”

A loud bang that can only come from a pulse rifle followed by screaming comes from outside and Jesse works faster. The arm doesn’t work immediately when the wires and nerve endings finally come together, leaving it deadweight as he runs over to the bag and starts pulling items out. Peacekeeper and his flash grenades are among the first items to fall out and Jesse grabs them quickly, placing his other revolver into one of Truce’s side pouches and holding Peacekeeper close. He also gather up his holovid and the Overwatch communicator, which is lit up in bright green. Jesse turns to look at Truce, who shrugs as best he can, but before he can argue another bang comes from outside and he’s on the move again, pressing himself against the wall by the door and opening it just enough to peer through.

The view isn’t good enough to give Jesse a clear picture but he can see five, maybe six people walking around in the lobby and up and down the hall. They’re kicking in the doors and opening fire, not bothering to check what might be in there. A rival gang, then.

Jesse steps into the hall with Peacekeeper raised high. The person closest to him barely catches sight of him and gets only the beginning of a shot off. Jesse lands a bullet in between his eyes and his daemon disappears in an explosion of golden Dust. The rest of the people file back into the hall now, raising the number from six to ten, and they all point their weapons at him, pulse rifles and shotguns the lot of them. From behind his legs Truce snarls and he’s answered with snarls from the gang's’ own daemons.

One of the men steps out from the crowd, vulture daemon hopping after him, and even from here Jesse can see his trigger finger twitch.

“Should have stayed in that room, would have been over quick.” The man sneers.

“Shouldn’t have come here, I reckon. Why don’t you get a real gun and we’ll see who ends up where.” Jesse makes as nonthreatening of a gesture as he can with his left hand, both to get himself used to having it again and to better hold onto one of the flash grenades in case it comes down to it, but it doesn’t work and the man snarls as he takes another step closer. He’s got a shotgun, and this close Jesse knows that if he somehow lives he’ll be throwing up pellets for months.

“Don’t!” A voice calls from the crowd and the man drops his gun, swinging around to snarl at the intruder. The woman from outside steps through the crowd as it parts like water for her, her heels clicking on the floor. She steps up to the man, placing a hand on the barrel of the shotgun and forcing it down, turning half way to look at Jesse.

“Jesse McCree,” She purrs, eyeing him up and down.

“Howdy, ma’am. Mind telling me what the hell’s going on? I doubt you shot up the place for my autograph, although I’d be mighty flattered if you did.”

The woman chuckles and crosses her arms over her chest, resting her chin on a hand. Her daemon has yet to come out and Jesse is willing to place money that it’s something small enough to hide in a locket that can be tucked away, under her arms. He levels Peacekeeper at her chest and the crowd surges forward, stopped only by a wave of the woman’s hand.

“I’d rather have you than your autograph, Mister McCree.” Shifting her weight she reaches into the cleavage of her dress, pulling out a long sterling chain and wrapping it around her finger as she eyes him up and down, slowly this time. The necklace glints in the light, blinding him for a brief second, but Jesse is willing to make out the ‘T’ shaped symbol.

“You’ve cost us quite a lot, McCree. Weapons, information, people, omnics, you know- the usual. By all means I should just have you shot where you stand and be done with it, seeing as how you’ve already cost as a man and our chance at taking a shot at a powerful person. Not that you’d know it by the looks of this place.” She looks the hallway over from top to bottom with a sneer.

“With all respect, ma’am, it’s my job to make yours hell.” The woman laughs at that, her eyes bright and hands clapping together.

“It’s not, though! That’s the funny part. You’re wanted in over ten countries across the world, and Overwatch has been done for years! So why is it that you keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Old habits, I guess.”

The woman tuts angrily, throwing her head back slightly as she sighs. 

“Old habits, sure. If that’s the case why don’t we see if this one still stands: You come with us, work for Talon, and I don’t have my boys here blow you to kingdom come.”

“Going to have to decline, sorry.” Waving her hand dismissively the woman steps back into the crowd and she’s gone in an instant as the crowd shuffles back into to cover her gap. They raise their weapons at him and there’s the sound of safeties clicking off. Truce huddles against his legs, snarling and shaking, and Jesse knows that he can’t reach down to comfort his daemon. If he fires quick enough he might be able to take down a handful of them before he falls. A quick glance around and yeah, that’s what he’ll do; if he’s lucky local authorities will show up before Talon can leave and they’ll be able to grab bodies before they’re disposed of.

Inhaling sharply Jesse feels a familiar burn in his right eye and the color begins to slowly fade away into a dull red around him. He sees them start to pull their triggers in slow motion and does the same. Somewhere along the back of the crowd a purple contrail zips by. Jesse says a long forgotten prayer and pulls the trigger.

“ _Draw!_ ”  
“ _Bombs away!_ ”  
Chaos erupts in the hall as six people fall to Jesse’s bullets and two are thrown into the wall by the small pulse bomb that had landed in the middle of them. The remaining two start firing blindly, one at Jesse and the other behind them, and the one firing at Jesse finds his mark. Two bullets hit his chest and Jesse falls lack a sack full of bricks, Truce barely managing to scramble out of the way as he falls. His head smacks against the floor and Jesse tries to curl in on himself, hissing in pain when his chest protest.

Bullets fire rapidly overhead and the man who had shot him drops to the ground, dead as a doornail. Above him, in all her glory, stands Lena Oxton, Roo perched on her shoulder with bristled fur. She looks like a Fury streaked in blood and wild rage in her eyes, come to guard him in his last moments. The last man standing is pale, gun shaking as he stares at Lena.

“Wouldn’t try it, mate,” she hisses. Lena had been a foundation in the structure of Overwatch, darting around and always making sure that everyone was fine and a key to most of the missions they went on. But she could be vicious when she wanted to be and Reyes had tried for months to get her to join Blackwatch, convinced that her skills would be better used with them than doing PR missions for Morrison. She declined every time, stating that she wanted to see the people she saved, wanted to be part of their lives, rather than having to work around red tape and lies. Jesse had a lot of respect for her and her decision, and he’d be lying if said he hadn’t been a little bit jealous.

The man hesitates, looking between Lena and Jesse and and back again before he decides to risk it anyway. He open fires on Lena, trying to follow her as she zips out of the way. Lena zips behind him and fires and the man crumbles to the ground.

Lena does a little spin with a laugh, stopping short when Jesse groans. Zipping over tohim, Lena falls to her knees and covers her mouth with her hands.

“Jesse! I’m so sorry!” She rolls him over onto his back, tearing his shirt open, and hissing when she sees the wound. Roo jumps down from her shoulder and trots over to Truce, who’s slinking across the floor on his stomach. 

“S’alright. I’m mighty thankful you’re here to begin with.” Clenching his teeth together Jesse places his mechanical hand on his chest, flinching at the cool metal, and ghosting over it until his fingers find the entry wounds. He manages to get a finger in before Lena yanks his hand away, returning his glare.

“Digging the bullets out will only make it worse, you dumb twat. It doesn’t look like you’ve got any exit wounds so thank goodness for that.” Lena tears apart his shirt, moving him to her needs to wrap the shirt pieces around his chest to cover the wounds. Jesse resigns himself to sitting as still as he can while she works; Lena is no Ziegler but she has a experience in field medicine and that’s all he needs. Roo bounces from Lena’s shoulder to Truce’s back, betraying the focused look on Lena’s face. 

“I owe you one, Lena… Though I’m a little surprised how you found me.”

“Followed your beacon!” Roo chirps happily from his spot on Truce’s side. The coyote is lying on his side, muzzle pressed against Jesse’s leg and tail slapping the lazily. His eyes are closed but he cracks them open when he feels Jesse staring down at him, grinning sheepishly.

“We were in danger.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jesse sighs. Taking a moment to look around he leans back as best he can to grab his hat off the floor, securing it on his head. Using Lena as a crutch Jesse hauls himself to his feet, patting her head in thanks. Lena follows him up and she zips to the front of the building to poke her head out the door before zipping back. Far off in the distance the sound of sirens rise over the din of city life and Jesse’s lips thin as he prepares for the worst. 

“Well, Lena, thanks for the rescue and all but we’re going to have to cut this short. Not so sure about you but quite a few people want my head or the money that comes with it, so I’m going to skedaddle now.”

Limping towards the door Jesse leans against Truce as best as a full grown man can lean against a coyote. Lena skips after him chatting about something or another that Jesse honestly isn’t paying attention to. They both step outside and Jesse looks up and down the street, weighing his options: There’s still a car from Talon parked nearby that he can take, assuming that Lena’s first aid would hold him out until he reached someplace safe. Alternatively he could try a local hospital, throw caution to the wind and see if he could leave town before the staff called the feds down on him. Deciding the car is probably the safer option in the long run, Jesse starts making his way toward it, limping as he goes.

“Hey! Where are you going? The _Goshawk_ is that way.” Lena grabs her arm, using it to swing herself around in front of him. She stands tall, shoulders squared and stance wide with her hands on her hips.

“Car,” Jesse answers and points at the mentioned vehicle, “Gotta get out of here because the police show up and I pass out from blood loss. Truce knows how to stop a car if I pass out.”

“Absolutely not! I didn’t fly all this way just to have you run off again. We’re have to go back to Gibraltar! Everyone’s there already! Well… Winston, Reinhardt, and I. Torbjorn is on his way and we even got a call back from Genji!”

Jesse pauses for a moment at the last name, staring down his nose at Lena who beams up at him, knowing he’s caught if only for the moment. Her face falters when he pushes past her to open the driver door of the car, throwing his hat and Peacekeeper inside. He doesn’t get the chance to get in when Lena wraps herself around his arm, looking up at him with the biggest eyes she can.

“Come back with us, Jesse. We need you.”

“I can’t, Lena. I won’t. Overwatch ain’t a thing anymore and I’m not interested in the storm that will follow if y’all try to bring it back.”

From his perch on Lena’s shoulder Roo makes a sad, low noise and turns his gaze down to Truce, who can’t stand to meet the chipmunk’s eyes. Lena and Roo both know why he left Overwatch to begin with, left Blackwatch, and Jesse remembers many a message sent to his holovid as he fled from the Britain saying that she was there if he ever needed anything. 

“Come back, Jesse. Just… If not for good at least until you’re healed up. I’d rather not hear about you dying on the side of the road because you’re too stubborn to know when to quit.” Lena dances around to wrap herself around his back now, no doubt digging his skinny legs into the dirt to try and keep him grounded.

Jesse sags against her, chuckling softly when she mumbles her protest, and pictures Gibraltar in his head. He thinks of the hot showers that have good pressure and the possibility of a fresh razor; he thinks about eating something besides hot dogs and roadkill and whatever Truce can catch, because there’s no way that Reinhardt will let the mess go unused, especially if Torbjorn shows up. He thinks of all of them, sitting around the table in the community room, laughing and playing poker or sharing silly stories. He definitely doesn’t think of the fact that he hasn’t seen anyone in six years or that the table will be missing three important members. He thinks of Genji and Michi and wonders if time has been kind to them. He thinks, knows, that he will get attached if he goes back. Lena knows it too and that’s probably what she’s banking on. 

“You win,” Jesse sighs. Grabbing his hat and gun from the car, he turns to face Lena, barely managing to dodge when she jumps in the air, fists raised, and then blinks away to the end of the street. She comes back when she remembers that he can’t move as fast as she, smiling sheepishly and talking adamantly about the _Goshawk_ and how Winston has done all sorts of improvements to it. 

By his side Truce thumps his tail to get his attention and when Jesse looks down the coyote is grinning at him wolfishly. Jesse flicks his ears and they both follow Lena as she guides them to the plane.

**Author's Note:**

> Updated for spelling/grammar errors and removal of basically all of the foreign language bits
> 
> Translations:
> 
> "especial de dos días" - two-day special


End file.
